Sympathy for the Devil
by Kristen999
Summary: What happens in Vegas, doesn't stay in Vegas, or end the episode. Missing coda. Spoilers for 5x19


Title: "Sympathy for the Devil"  
Author:Kristen999  
Word Count: 1600~  
Rating: K  
Genre: Gen, Angst, H/C  
Spoilers: Season 5 "Vegas"  
Characters: John. Rodney.  
Summary: What happens in Vegas, doesn't stay in Vegas, or end the episode. Missing coda.

Notes: Don't read until the eppy airs unless you want massive spoilers. Thank you so much to Titan5 for the swift beta.

* * *

_It's amazing how one incident can entirely alter the course of your life._

That's a lie. It'd been more than one, or two, or even three. Try dozens of them. One screw-up after another. Dad drowned himself in Jim Bean to forget about losing his son and wife, discounting the fact that a brother and mother had been lost, too. On John's eighteenth birthday he enlisted in the Air Force to forget about them all.

Once you start running, there's no stopping-- then there's no where else to run.

Smoke irritates his eyes, singes his throat. All he has is fire and blood to wash it away. Deserts burn the same no matter where it seems. This one is twenty degrees cooler, but with less dead bodies. It's quiet, there's no screaming, just the smoldering remains of a metal trailer versus a downed Apache.

It's kind of fitting. He set off on this world alone, and now he'll leave it much the same way.

He'll miss the Camaro. It was the only thing he loved, keeping him company during those long nights on endless, Nevada roads. Too bad he has no one to leave her to, who'll keep the radio in classic condition like he did. Even after an air strike it's surviving defiantly, her red steel the only thing holding him up.

The money's scattered over the seat and floor, his ticket out of Vegas and to somewhere else. He almost fled from his mistakes again, but dollar bills are only good at buying time. John likes gambling, loves the risk more. It's not the thrill of flying choppers, or the adrenaline rush of war, but even a royal flush couldn't fill the hole inside him any more.

Cigar smoke, booze, and bookies-- dingy back rooms were the danger he subconsciously couldn't live without. Broken fingers, black eyes and bruised ribs, the punishment he rightly deserved.

Becoming a cop was supposed to change things, making detective his way to pay penance. They both failed. He was simply too broken.

The bullet ripped a hole in his shoulder, searing through his chest. All the white of his cotton shirt is stained red, dripping into the folds of his jeans, pooling around his belt. His body is a cold, dead weight. With one last burst of energy he staggers, stands, and after three feet he falls back down.

He chokes, the blackness closes in, and he uses what energy is left to flip onto his back. To see the stars one last time. His fingers rest on the silver cross that hasn't been around his neck in over twenty years. Maybe, just maybe, it brought him redemption. John's head lolls to its side, the trailer a cindered mess. Or coming out here did.

_Things don't always go the way we planned._

Darkness descends as John's eyes gradually close, his hearing going soon after. He never notices the sirens, or the sound of familiar rotor blades.

* * *

Awareness is a dagger digging into his flesh below the collarbone, and drawing in air a raging fire through his chest. He blinks, body jerking, pain blossoming, and his vision goes grey at the edges.

"Detective! Detective Sheppard!"

Who is that?

"Don't you quit, damn it! I like to pay back my debts and I owe you big time."

Why would anyone be with him? John doesn't know where here is, but it doesn't matter. Oxygen doesn't go into his lungs and the rest of him is numb and getting number.

"He can't breathe! Do something!"

"We're trying sir, please stay back."

John's mind drifts in and out with images of spaceships and vampire aliens with goth make-up. The thing behind glass walls, the Wraith tears through his mind, "There has to be another reason for your existence, John Sheppard."

He feels something warm wiggle between his frozen fingers. Opening his lids is a test of epic proportions. Things are a blur of motion and color, but he recognizes what it's like to be in flying in the air. The fiercest blue eyes stare back at him, leading to a rumpled suit jacket and a hand that squeezes his own.

"Fight, detective! I know everything about you, remember? You've always been one stubborn sonuvabitch. Now use some of that rebellious nature and hang on."

It'd be easier to let go, to prove that arrogant McKay guy wrong. Then he remembers seeing the secret warehouse, finding out that the world out there is really not what it appears. It intrigues him, whispering ideas in his ear. Then his body spasms, and there's yelling, and something hard and unrelenting is shoved down his throat.

_

* * *

_

_You know, I once I met another version of you. He was very different. _

There are sounds and that's strange because John didn't expect any noise at all. Just long, blessed silence. White static soon becomes beeps and blips. The last time he heard those machines, he wished he'd never awoken up at all. Yet, there it is again, the steady rhythm of his heart.

"You do know I'm a busy man, right? I saw you twitch. I have things to do."

John eyes are grit and grime, his body something that has no form. It takes hours, or perhaps several minutes to realize he's not dead. Sand and maybe a cactus took root in his mouth and it's impossible to do anything other than moan.

"Finally."

Dr. McKay huffs near-by, smug expression and expensive suit all in the right place. John almost goes back to sleep, but the man looks a little peeved about the impending nap. "Did...is the--" He forgets what the alien...and his brain stutters over the word. Yeah, what the alien is called.

"Wraith. Yes, it's dead. You prevented him from sending out a signal to his buddies," McKay says. Then his features darken. "Didn't I tell you not to engage?"

John doesn't recall much, so he grunts when he tests his mobility, which is zero.

"Automatic bullets do a real number on the human body. Medicine was never my thing, but trust me when I say, you're lucky." McKay shifts uncomfortably. "You're at an advanced medical facility and rest assured you'll be given the best care."

"Why?" John croaks.

The answer is lost in the heavy pull of sleep and it's too much,this whole being alive and not dead thing. It's even weirder that there's someone around at all.

The next bout of consciousness there's a woman there with amazing bronze hair. The time after that some huge guy.

When being awake doesn't entail only three or four minutes, John is greeted by McKay again who is arguing with the dude who thought the alien..er Wraith was going to blow up Earth.

"I told you. We need to get this to our people at NORAD. Dr. Beckett has the strongest expression and maybe he can activate it," the little guy insists.

McKay grabs the tiny purple cube and tosses it in annoyance at the table next to John's water pitcher. He observes between heavy lids in confusion.

"Oh, he is awake," the guys says. "Good afternoon."

"Hey," John replies with little emotion.

The other scientist stares at his watch. "I have a meeting with Dr Weir. Maybe we'll pick this up another time." He turns to John. "Hope you're feeling better, detective."

There's a long pause before McKay is talking. His tone is still smug, but it's soothing in its own way. He goes on about one topic or another. John's shoulder is killing him and he's not very good around people when he's in so much pain.

"Why are you here?" he blurts in the middle of McKay's one-sided conversation.

McKay looks offended. "Because...well..." he clears his throat. "I thought when you're able, I could get a detailed report from you."

"You're not a good liar," John says, but doesn't allow him to interrupt. "Who were those other people earlier?"

"Oh. They were other members of my team." John doesn't get it and McKay sighs. "What you did. Well, what can I say. You're a hero and we thought you shouldn't be alone."

It's hard not to laugh, but McKay is serious and John doesn't know how to deal with such things. There might be some other versions of him out there who save the day, but that's not him. John had been running away again and now he's –he doesn't know what he's doing. The purple cube looks like a single die from the craps table and he grabs it to have something to occupy his hand.

The thing glows bright purple and a tingling sensations ripples down his arm. "Whoa," is the only coherent thing his mind comes up with.

"You've got to be kidding me," McKay oohs and awes, his face that of a kid at Christmas.

John's too mesmerized by the sensation of Technicolor-color and overcome by math that doesn't look familiar.

_I don't know what I will, _

_but until, I can find me. _

"Detective Sheppard. When you are fully recovered. I have a proposition for you. One that can make a difference to millions of people."

John stares at McKay. "What do you mean?"

"I think you should meet my team."

_I'll show you your destiny , John Sheppard._

* * *


End file.
